More IV's today. And more tomorrow. None the day after, though, because it's Saturday and the doctor's office is closed. Which means by the time Monday rolls around I'll be in screaming agony, unless I'm very, very lucky. Which is unlikely because we all know how lucky I am. Well, no, that's a lie, because I got very lucky when I found Nate.
My psychiatrist is, I think, growing frustrated with me, because my mood is not improving. (not including this week from hell) It's been a steady 2 out of 10, with one being 'I'm going to shoot myself" and ten being "I'm fine", since I got out of hospital back in June. Not better, not worse, which in some ways is good--means the mood stabilizers are at least slightly doing their jobs--but at the same time it means nothing if I feel this crummy all the freaking time. The only time I felt remotely better was when I was with Nate, but...I think that was, a great deal of it anyway, the novelty of it, and if I had him around me all the time I would slide back down to a two. She attempted to comfort me with a story about how the other day one of her clients finally found the right medication--after forty years. I can't wait another thirty years like this. It's hard enough to make it through a freaking day.
Sorry, I don't mean for this thing to turn into a "boo-hoo, pity me, I'm so sick and miserable" because, for the most part, I'm either coping or learning to cope. Right now, I'm learning to cope. I think I bitch here because I have no one else to bitch to.
Thanks for listening.
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